


Beings

by powerandpathos



Category: 19天 - Old先 | 19 Days - Old Xian
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Come Marking, Come Swallowing, Deepthroating, Exhibitionism, Face-Fucking, Facials, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, in the sense that there is fucking against a window, it's all there, the boys are in university
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 12:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9071074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos/pseuds/powerandpathos
Summary: ‘Oh,’ said He Tian, looking down at him. His eyes were like coal pits, bottomless and lightless. Falling into them would not be a kindness. ‘No, Guan Shan, that’s—this isn’t yours. Did you think that’s what this was?’
A TianShan PWP.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/post/154996297979/beings
> 
> My sincere thanks to [sub_textual](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sub_textual/pseuds/sub_textual) for copy-editing and reading porn for me lmao. XD;

‘Seriously? Mistletoe?’

‘You make things ridiculously fucking difficult for me. Yes, mistletoe.’

Guan Shan stared at it, hanging in the doorframe of He Tian’s apartment, and then he stared at He Tian. The smile was barely there, a ghost of a thing curved at the corners, settled in the lines of his lower lip. Guan Shan looked away.

‘Aren’t you going to come in?’ said He Tian. The smile was corporeal now, and laughter was creeping in.

Flatly, ‘There’s something in my way.’

‘You’re good at avoiding things.’

Guan Shan stepped back. ‘I can leave?’

He Tian’s hand was on his wrist before he could take another step, body moving out through the doorway. For a second, though Guan Shan pretended it hadn’t, something flashed on He Tian’s face that Guan Shan thought was probably too real for this moment. He thought, probably, that it spoke of something with too much truth.

‘Don’t go,’ said He Tian, a rush of words and too much breath. He huffed out a laugh, a smile, eyes loose and lying. ‘You don’t have to. I was just—fucking about.’

Guan Shan pulled himself carefully from He Tian’s grip, and tugged the hem of his jumper down. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t want to,’ he said. ‘Just—you don’t need to trick me into it.’

‘It’s not really a trick.’

 _It’s not?_ Guan Shan thought. Sometimes, everything with He Tian seemed like a trick, a sleight of hand, covering one thing up for another. It was a dizzying part of him, trying to understand what was real, and what He Tian wanted someone to see, and what was the thing he had forgotten to cover up. Lately, Guan Shan thought that He Tian was forgetting more often than not, and maybe that was a willing thing, but Guan Shan wondered if that was a trick too.

The mistletoe went unwatched, and unused, and Guan Shan put his bags down in the kitchen.

‘Did you get everything?’ said He Tian, helping him put away groceries. Guan Shan was staying for the week, up until New Year’s, while his mother worked night shifts at the hospital.

 _It seems pointless, the both of us being alone,_ He Tian had said, and Guan Shan’s mind had hovered on _pointless_. Pointless for what reason? Pointless in the sense that two people should not be alone during the holidays? Pointless in the sense that they were hoping to achieve something in not wasting time? Pointless in the sense that this was time they had, together, before university started again, and it should be put to good use?

Guan Shan bit the inside of his cheek. Another of He Tian’s tricks, keeping meaning but cloaking it with a new word until it became something else.

He said, ‘You wouldn’t know if I got everything or didn’t.’

‘I’m not entirely stupid anymore,’ said He Tian, lifting the bag of rice above his head and into one of the large cupboards above the fridge. It was heavy, and He Tian was tall enough. His shirt parted from the waistband of his jeans to show a flash of skin, and it was a thing Guan Shan did not tire of seeing: an unconscious revelation of He Tian. He was revealed in minute parts of himself, entirely without intention.

‘I asked you if you wanted pipa tofu in the week and you didn’t know what it was.’

He Tian made an irritated sound. ‘I’m _sorry_ that Mother always just called it fried tofu, all right?’

Guan Shan pressed down a smile, tipping clementines into the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter. ‘All right,’ he said. And then, ‘I know you’re not stupid, you know.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t think you’re actually stupid.’

He Tian was staring at him. ‘I didn’t think you were either, but I’m beginning to doubt myself.’

Guan Shan sighed, tongue dragged between his teeth. He rubbed a hand against his neck, feeling the shorn hair, bristled and coarse. This was too easy. The antagonism. The scathing retorts. It wasn’t that it was what they knew; it was that, by now, they couldn’t help themselves. The predictability of it was comfortable, but the reaction was new, freshly manufactured each time.

‘Your lip’s bleeding.’

Guan Shan glanced up. He Tian was standing at the sink, a hand on the side, watching him.

Guan Shan touched fingers to his lip, and they drew away wet and bloodied.

‘Shit. I—’

‘Let me,’ said He Tian. He was in front of him in moments, damp paper towel leaking water down his wrist, and Guan Shan watched the drift of the beads down He Tian’s skin as he dabbed it against Guan Shan’s lip, a hand on his shoulder. If Guan Shan lifted his eyes, he might catch He Tian’s gaze, and that was unsafe.

—he lifted his eyes.

He Tian’s careful attentions came to a still, and Guan Shan heard the moment that the both of them stopped breathing.

‘Fuck,’ said He Tian.

The tissue was left soaking wet into the counter, and He Tian had a hand on Guan Shan’s wrist, where it had been before, pulling at him. He Tian was made, sometimes, of nothing but action: treated things—treated Guan Shan—like something to be moved and placed, set how he wanted like a painter’s model, a marionette.

Guan Shan went willingly, tugged into He Tian’s bedroom, steps mindless, because He Tian expected things to fall into place for him, and Guan Shan wanted to be mindless and fall into place for him. He wanted to be something that was easy.

‘Do you know,’ said He Tian, teeth at Guan Shan’s neck, ‘how much I have been waiting for this week?’

‘Too much,’ said Guan Shan. And then, ‘I want this too much.’

He Tian bit down—hard. Guan Shan expected to touch the skin and feel blood, to feel it match his torn lip. He Tian liked, too much, to tear him and heal him—to feel he was both ruiner and saviour.

He Tian’s lips met his, and he was brutal and soft, eyes made of granite when they opened, tongue searching and struggling in Guan Shan’s mouth. It tasted of desperation, teeth and bruising lips, almost violent with the need to get closer, to push himself in further, an onslaught that Guan Shan weathered and made him accept.

Guan Shan stumbled when He Tian pulled away, lips chasing the sensation, the loss of it jarring.

 _More?_ he wanted to say, to plead. _Let there be more._

‘Strip,’ said He Tian. His voice was a rough scrape across Guan Shan’s skin, all blunt fingernails and scraping teeth.

Guan Shan hesitated. ‘Do you want me to—’

‘I want you to take your clothes off and put them by the wall, Guan Shan.’

Guan Shan swallowed at that—the order, twining wire around him and pulling on the end of it. If he didn’t move with him he would bleed, and scar, and He Tian would lick at the cuts with awful pride.

Guan Shan pulled the t-shirt over his head first. His socks followed, body teetering over itself as he struggled for balance, and then he was tugging down at the waistband of his black tracksuit bottoms. They pooled at his feet. The air conditioning settled on him like frost, and he carried the bundle of clothes to the wall, knowing how He Tian would be looking at him. Knowing that his eyes had widened, incrementally, when he saw that Guan Shan wore nothing beneath the black fabric.

‘On your knees,’ He Tian said quietly.

Guan Shan blinked at him, and lowered himself to the floor, one knee first—the other, hard wood unforgiving on his pale skin. Tomorrow, they would be red and bruised. He Tian would scrape his teeth along them, over each mark that had been made—that He Tian had made—a patchwork quilt of bruises and teeth marks and the purpled remnants of his kisses. Guan Shan would lie there, and let He Tian remake him, restitch him, woven by him—of him—a little more every time.

He Tian’s cock was long and half-hard when Guan Shan pulled him out through the zip of his jeans. He was clothed entirely, and Guan Shan never felt more aware of his own skin like this, bare, on his knees, before him. He never knew his body more than this: the press of his ribs, the slightest dip of his waist where He Tian could put a warm hand, the nape of his neck and the back of his knees, where He Tian would graze his teeth.

He Tian was a shadow before him, the loom of a ghost, too charged and full and visceral for Guan Shan to pretend he did not exist. He Tian was too real and solid, too heavy to the touch, too hot on his tongue.

The slide was easy and familiar, and the head of He Tian’s cock bumped against the back of his throat, made him gag slightly. But he held him there, made himself work around him, reshape himself around him. He could taste and smell him, the salt of him, the heat of it, and felt He Tian seeping into him. Guan Shan tightened his lips as he slid backwards, the length hard as sheathed iron, made to move forwards again—and then He Tian’s hands were in his hair, sting-tight, eyes leaking with the pull.

‘Oh,’ said He Tian, looking down at him. His eyes were like coal pits, bottomless and lightless. Falling into them would not be a kindness. ‘No, Guan Shan, that’s—this isn’t yours. Did you think that’s what this was?’

Guan Shan’s mouth was still around him, barely further than the tip, but he knew what he looked like, eyes leaking, lifted heavenward, and falling on He Tian, lips stretched around his cock.

‘Hands behind your back,’ said He Tian.

Slowly, Guan Shan let go of the grip he had on He Tian’s thighs, and held them clasped behind him. He could feel himself starting to shake, the trembling setting in, like the fragile tremors before an earthquake.

‘Don’t suck,’ said He Tian. ‘I’m going to fuck your mouth, and you’re not going to move.’

Guan Shan was already choking, no time to say anything, drag in a breath, when He Tian was shoving in with a pummelling, bruising thrust. The air was stolen from him, and his fingernails were biting into his wrist, and he could see nothing through swimming eyes as He Tian shoved himself forward, inward, like he could fit himself down Guan Shan’s throat. It was like, in a minute, he would click into place and settle there. He could barely flatten his tongue; could barely mould his lips over his teeth in time.

He had to squeeze his eyes shut with the force of it; tears were running too freely from his eyes, and he could see it so clearly: how, one day, He Tian would make him kneel and not let him up; how he would breathe around the taste of He Tian’s cock on his tongue—for hours. Sit there and warm him. Hold him. Kneel on the floor while the credits of a film rolled and He Tian wouldn’t look at him. Settle himself between He Tian’s thighs while he slept. To be that used; to become a _thing_ , unseen and unspoken and unacknowledged, made a part of his mind rearrange itself. He knew he would do it.

He knew, as He Tian choked him on his cock, hollowed out his throat with the punches, that he would do it and he would love it, and he would be as hard as he was now, cock aching and stiff against his stomach. He was leaking, untouched, and no feeling existed but this: left strained and unable and _disallowed._ He quaked with some unspeakable, irrational fear of what would happen—if he touched himself. If He Tian caught him doing it.

He Tian pressed his foot onto Guan Shan’s cock, and Guan Shan choked on the pressure of it, doubled with the slam of his hips, gurgling on too much spit and the thickness of him forcing its way across his tongue, to the back of his mouth, down his throat, reaching down inside of him with wrenching, wrecking thrusts.

Would Guan Shan be able to breathe right again? Would he be able to take anything in without feeling raw, without feeling like He Tian would be making something new of him? His jaw was locked open, bone-aching, an open hole for He Tian to push into and spill onto.

‘Are you coming to come?’ He Tian said, unceasing. How long had it been like this? Guan Shan’s knees were sore and breaking into the floor.

Like this, Guan Shan couldn’t say anything. Even empty, he couldn’t make anything out, couldn’t form anything that could be like words—just sounds, helpless, keening. _Yes,_ they said. _It hurts it hurts and I’m so close._

He Tian pressed closer, dug the heel of his foot against Guan Shan’s cock, and Guan Shan felt raw and torn open when he came, a thrumming, bone-deep ache that ran through him, through blood and marrow like wildfire; it felt like He Tian was touching him, burning him everywhere.

In the shuddering aftermath, He Tian pulled his cock from Guan Shan’s throat, and Guan Shan felt the first breath come in an empty gasp.

‘Mouth open,’ said He Tian. ‘Look at me.’

Guan Shan opened his mouth. He looked at him. There was sweat on He Tian’s brow, and his lip was shredded between his teeth as he stripped his cock, red and wet, so used to the heat of Guan Shan’s throat, between his fist. A handful of seconds, nothing, and then He Tian was spilling across Guan Shan’s open mouth, stringey come landing on his tongue, across his cheeks, webbed in his eyelashes. He felt soaked in it.

‘Swallow,’ He Tian said. Watched his throat convulse. ‘Good. Clean me.’

Guan Shan suckled on the tip of it, and sank down onto the length of him with short, careful bobs of his head, and then pulled off. He stared at it, glistening and wet, the only part of He Tian that could be reached and touched. The most sensitive part of him had been bared, and Guan Shan had been trusted with this—this awful, filthy intimacy.  

He was barely breathing evenly, barely given time to catch himself, when He Tian pulled him to his feet, yanking motions that ignored how Guan Shan’s knees were unsteady, how his legs trembled, how every part of him was a shudder. He Tian was dragging him to the window, where the city was lit up and blocked in light before them, there to be looked at; there to look back at them in glowing darkness.

He Tian was kicking Guan Shan’s shaking legs apart, shoving a hand between his shoulderblades until his hands fell palm-flat against the glass. There was a click, a clatter of a bottle falling to the floor, and He Tian was shoving two fingers inside of Guan Shan with a single, concentrated push, and Guan Shan had nothing to do but part for him.

The sound that came from him was almost a scream, ripped out of him, sight blocked out—nothing but the feel of He Tian pushing his way in like he was going to tear him out and make him into something new.

He was heaving against the glass, so tight around the pressure of He Tian’s fingers, relentless, clenching around him like it could force him out; clenching around him like he couldn’t stand for it to go, for it not to be like this.   

There was a third finger, and Guan Shan didn’t—he wasn’t _ready—_ he couldn’t—

‘You’re so fucking wet for me,’ He Tian said, and the words slipped across him like oil. He could taste He Tian’s come in his mouth. It was drying and cracking on his skin, soaking on him like wet clay. When it was gone, wiped away, Guan Shan wondered if he’d be something new beneath it, something He Tian had created; something He Tian could claim was his. 

He Tian’s fingers were scraping along the inside of him, and Guan Shan was so stretched, aching around his touch. _Touch_ , he thought, delirious. This wasn’t touch. This was a _wrecking._ This was being ruined and remade. This was having to take it against the glass with his legs buckling beneath him and He Tian’s come soaking into his skin.

This was having He Tian’s fingers out and his cock pressing at his hole, muscles trembling, gaping around the loss, the nothingness. This was crying out, strangled, as He Tian started a slow, tight slide into him, burying himself in him. This was him slipping in, still, further and—

‘ _God_ ,’ Guan Shan choked out, hoarse. He was being rearranged and fucked into something for He Tian— _for He Tian_ —when there was nothing left. Nowhere more. He could feel the ghost of He Tian’s cock in his mouth, feel it like He Tian was so far inside him that he was fucking up into his throat. ‘He Tian, you need to—you need to _stop_ —’

He Tian stopped, and Guan Shan couldn’t understand why he—why had he stopped? What had he—done what he asked? He looked at him over his shoulder, but meeting that gaze was unbearable, and when he looked down, he saw how He Tian’s hips were flush against his own, entirely unselfconscious. He could feel, now, the fabric of He Tian’s jeans on his skin, scratching and rough against milk-white skin sheened in sweat and lube and He Tian’s come.

He stared at the joining, and understood. ‘You’re—inside. You’re all—I—’

His heart was careening, echoing on his ribs. He Tian’s hand was on his throat, not hard enough to hurt; hard enough that he could hear the slow heaviness of his breathing grow shallow. He shuddered with the promise of that touch.

 _I could ruin you_ , it said. _And you would let me, wouldn’t you?_

‘Yes,’ Guan Shan whimpered.

When he moved, it was pummelling, and ceaseless; He Tian was punching into him, and Guan Shan choked with every smack of flesh, every stinging thrust forward that left Guan Shan with nowhere to go, left him rising on his toes, trembling to hold his place, calf muscles shaking, hands scrabbling against the glass with nothing to take purchase. His feet were barely touching the ground where he was settled—speared on He Tian’s cock, and he was shoved forward, left reeling, left with no time to recover.

He Tian held him with fingers against his Adam’s apple, with a touch on his hip that was so light it was arrogant, and Guan Shan would ask him to hold tighter if he didn’t know it was what He Tian wanted.

He Tian wanted the begging, the reduced, keening sounds forced from him when it became like this. He wanted the mercy of it, to give it only when Guan Shan needed it and could do nothing but let He Tian give it.

 _Benevolence_ , He Tian would call it. _A kindness_.

Guan Shan wouldn’t say it—couldn’t say it—just had to dig his nails into the window that wouldn’t let him grip onto anything. Too much glass, too much space, too much light beyond, too many _people watching, too much space between himself and He Tian and it wasn’t enough_ —and Guan Shan was forced forward, shoved against the glass while He Tian’s cock pierced itself inside of him.

And then He Tian stopped.

Immediately, Guan Shan’s breath was startling and shuddering, desperate to pull in air before He Tian tore it from him again. He Tian made it so difficult for him to _breathe_ , and he sucked in gulps of air like he had been drowning, forced himself to calm, to re-centre himself, to find himself again. He Tian had reworked him from the inside, made a space out of Guan Shan for his cock, made Guan Shan into that space. Guan Shan’s mind struggled around the thought.

His back was pressed against He Tian’s chest now, and He Tian was snaking the hand on his throat down his sternum, nails dragging across his nipples; Guan Shan felt it like skin shoved against livewire. He Tian’s came to rest, just there, on the inside of Guan Shan’s thigh, no further, and the touch was dementing. He was doing _nothing_ but _holding it there_ , as if Guan Shan were a thing to be rested upon and touched, a placeholder.

He Tian’s other hand moved now, too, sliding from the press against Guan Shan’s hip, and coming to rest on the inside of his other thigh, thumbs a mirrored ‘v’.  

He Tian must have felt how he trembled there, with that too-light touch; he must have felt how he quaked and tremored like a young earthquake. If Guan Shan was the earthquake, what did that make He Tian? He was his own wrecking, natural disaster. Guan Shan didn’t think a man could be that much.

‘He Tian,’ he whimpered. ‘What are you—?’

‘Shhh,’ said He Tian, hands brushing warm and steady across his thighs, hot and sticky with sweat and pre-come and lube, He Tian trailing his fingers through it like he was gathering it on his skin so he could taste it.

His hands came back to their resting place, thumbs digging into the dip of Guan Shan’s pelvis, where his pulse was hammering beneath his skin, and then sliding inwards, resting where they were still joined, where He Tian’s cock was filling the inside of him. From He Tian’s thumbs—a pressure.

‘No,’ said Guan Shan, trying to wriggle away as He Tian started pressing in, forcing a space into existence for him, as if it wasn’t enough that Guan Shan had already taken all of him—been reworked, been hollowed out for He Tian’s cock. But there was no space—there was nowhere for He Tian to go and he couldn’t, it was—it was too much.

‘Yes,’ said He Tian, because there was nowhere for _Guan Shan_ to go, and He Tian had him crowded against the glass, back broad enough that his shoulders could curve their way around, stop Guan Shan from thinking that there was anywhere he could escape.

He Tian’s thumbs pressed in, withdrew, circled the tight ring of muscle, urging and smoothing and pushing in, and Guan Shan felt a part of him start to give in—and something else, fundamentally, start to break.

Too much. It was too much. It couldn’t—

Guan Shan stopped breathing.

He Tian’s fingers were inside him, pressed between He Tian’s cock and the hot slickness of his insides.

He Tian gave an experimental roll of his hips, testing, and the air was tearing through Guan Shan in a shuddering attempt to keep breathing, keep the flow of it while He Tian thrust, thumbs holding Guan Shan open and ready for him, until it felt almost like He Tian was barely even touching the inside of him, that there was this infinite space around his cock that only dissolved as he pressed into the hilt—that only closed himself off until the last moment where Guan Shan could do nothing but clench around him because it wasn’t _stopping._

He found himself chasing it, rocking himself back, gutting himself on the stretch of it. He could hear himself, whining, heaving with the awful pressure of it—and then it was gone, and his hole was sore and tight around He Tian’s cock as He Tian wrenched his thumbs out.

He Tian’s hands, fingers coated in the wetness of Guan Shan’s insides, were shifting, constant, and Guan Shan was dizzy with the change, lit up with every touch—there was nowhere that hadn’t become He Tian’s. There was a hand, now, wrapping tight around his cock, another sliding along the inside of his thigh, lifting it up, knee level with his waist. He was exposed.

‘You’re so open,’ He Tian said, voice a low growl in his ear. ‘Look at you. Stretched on my cock and letting everyone look at you.’

Guan Shan felt tears leaking from his eyes, overwhelmed, ruined.

‘You’re such a slut, aren’t you?’ He Tian said. ‘You want everyone to look at you, don’t you? You want people to watch you get fucked and spread against a window.’

‘No,’ Guan Shan whispered. He was so confused, so—this wasn’t—he didn’t want it like— ‘No, I—I—’

He Tian silenced him as he rocked into him, a hand on Guan Shan’s cock, fingers biting, bruising into his thigh, and Guan Shan reached behind. He gripped the back of He Tian’s neck, held onto his forearm where he was lifting Guan Shan’s leg, where he was held open to anyone looking.

There were so many lights. So many windows. So many people. Someone would be watching, and Guan Shan felt the truth wrecking him. He felt, worse, the knowledge that he could ask He Tian to stop this, and that he would stop, and that he wasn’t going to ask for it at all.

He Tian’s lips were a hot murmur in his ear. ‘You are a slut. God, you were made for this. Just here for me to fill with come—you’ll be leaking for weeks.’

Guan Shan shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut. ‘I don’t—I can’t—’

‘You want me to breed you, don’t you? _You’re my cunt_.’

Guan Shan choked. He Tian wasn’t making sense. He was just saying words; he said them like they were real, and Guan Shan couldn’t—almost believed in them—couldn’t think. He could feel something in him start to fracture and splinter at the words.

‘I can see them watching you, Guan Shan.’

‘No,’ Guan Shan whispered.

‘The hotel across the street. Fifth floor, on your right. He’s stroking his cock watching you. He’s going to come looking at you. He’s thinking about doing what I’m doing to you, but he knows he can’t. Knows you’re only good for my cock, aren’t you? I’ve fucked you into the shape of me. No one will be good enough for you after me. You’ll be _made_ for my cock. You’ll never want—never be able to take anyone else after me.’   

 _Was that true?_ a part of himself was asking, cracked on the inside of him. Was there never going to be anything but this? Guan Shan was breaking apart with the thought that He Tian could be right, because feeling like this, now, felt like the only thing he could ever let ruin him so willingly.

Guan Shan could feel He Tian growing impossibly larger, rubbing the inside of him raw, Guan Shan just flesh to be ruined around him. He Tian’s teeth were buried in Guan Shan’s shoulder, like needles stinging his skin. He was marking him up, inside and out, punching the air from him every time he fucked into Guan Shan, and when He Tian thumbed over the head of his cock, trailed his fingernails up the length of him, Guan Shan had to let go—had to spill across the window, into He Tian’s hands.

He was breaking apart with a silent scream, split open, and He Tian wasn’t stopping. He swiped a thumb across the window, Guan Shan’s come staining the glass, and Guan Shan felt part of him fracturing when He Tian pressed the thumb to Guan Shan’s mouth. An offering. A test.

‘Taste yourself,’ he said. ‘See what you taste like when I make you come.’

Guan Shan was blissed out—had gone somewhere other when He Tian’s thumb pushed its way into his parting lips, dragging against his teeth, wiping itself onto his tongue like he could be cleaned like this. A hot rush of air across his face, and He Tian’s tongue was working itself into him next, chasing it. Guan Shan could barely give anything now; he just had to let He Tian take it, and let him work himself into every part of Guan Shan that could be torn open and buried into.

He couldn’t see the lights beyond them, the shadowed forms in windows, watching, their silent audience. He couldn’t feel the cold marble of the floor beneath his feet, or the glass that he had slipped against so many times. He couldn’t feel the chill of the air conditioning, sweat cooling as it spilled across his skin, or recognise that the heat of him was He Tian.

He could feel only He Tian’s cock pulsing inside of him, shaking Guan Shan on him, hammering into him, something to be dragged over and used.

He Tian gripped his cock again, hanging soft and spent between his thighs.

Guan Shan jerked, struggled, tried to pull himself away. He Tian’s grip was unyielding, tightening with every squirm, and wriggle; any attempt to free himself from something that he knew he couldn’t. ‘No,’ he said, voice wrecked, barely his own. ‘I—I just came, I can’t—Not again—No more—’

‘You can,’ said He Tian. ‘And you will. I want you to come now.’

Guan Shan’s eyes flew wide, and he met He Tian’s steady gaze in the reflection of the window. Everything in him was singing and shocking; he felt ready to spark and set alight, ready to let it all burn him alive.

‘Now?’ he whispered.

‘ _Now_ ,’ said He Tian. And then Guan Shan felt it like standing outside in the middle of a storm, because suddenly He Tian was ripping into him, no release, stealing something from him with every slam of his hips, so hard it hurt, gutted him, made him feel it in his throat. Guan Shan’s knees were ready to give way when He Tian’s hand started tugging on his cock. It was ruthless, no finesse, just a barrage that made him feel soaked and shattered by lightning.

‘Come _right now_ , Guan Shan,’ He Tian growled, and Guan Shan couldn’t hear the sounds he was making, torn from him, could only feel as they wrecked his throat and his vocal cords because he was shaking _everywhere._ He was burning _everywhere_.

‘ _I’m trying_ ,’ he sobbed, trying to dredge something from the empty bottom of him. There was nothing there, and he was scrabbling so desperately for something—anything; he needed to give He Tian this. ‘I’m trying, I promise, I promise—’

He felt like he was ready to collapse into himself, useless and used, and He Tian was forcing his walls to keep standing. He was punching into him, bruising him from the inside, gripping tight around Guan Shan’s cock and it was too much and he couldn’t _he couldn’t_ , gurgling the words, mindless sounds spilling from his lips.

‘ _Yes_ , you _can_ ,’ He Tian said, hounding him, rendering him limp as a ragdoll, and, impossibly, suddenly, everything became faster, grip tighter, hips lurching and pummelling.

Guan Shan was screaming. There was nothing left of him.

His words meant nothing and he meant nothing so long as he didn’t do what He Tian told him to. _Please don’t make me I can’t I can’t I—_

‘Come for me,’ He Tian demanded, hissing. ‘Come for me _now_ , Guan Shan! _Right now_!’

He rammed his cock against Guan Shan’s prostate, and it tore a howl from him that held nothing human, nothing lucid in it anymore—he wasn’t there; wasn’t there when orgasm shuddered through him like a hurricane, wrecking him, leaving him dry and used and _taken_ ; wasn’t there when it was pulled from him, wrenched from him by He Tian’s fist and his cock; wasn’t there when He Tian pulled from him and left him gaping and open, trying to rework itself around nothing—could only feel the emptiness of it—and then a hot swipe across his hole; could only feel He Tian’s tongue working inside of him, too hot, too wet, parting for the heat of it—had he even come yet?

‘Not yet,’ He Tian said, pulling away, standing again, pressing his teeth into Guan Shan’s skin, into the top of his thighs, his hips, leaving small, burning indents in his path like leaving burn marks on a treasure map, small x’s. _Here marks the spot_.

Guan Shan had his forehead pressed to the glass, kept his feet spread wide, palms flat against the chilled surface. Someone was watching this, and by now he didn’t care. By now, he felt the quiet, dangerous thrill of it.

‘I can’t,’ he whispered, thinking about falling to his knees, thinking about holding He Tian’s cock heavy and resting on his tongue, slipping down the back of his throat with a practiced slide, and how, now, he would choke on it and choke on the strip of come that would paint his throat. He felt, now, that he could do nothing but cling to cold, open glass, and let He Tian open him and leave him hot. He felt drunk, loose-limbed and impossible, hazed-out, lips burning, lights blurring through his lashes like he was seeing everything in the reflection of water.

‘You don’t have to,’ said He Tian. Guan Shan watched blearily through the reflection as he rose again to his feet, coldness chased away by the prickly heat of slicked skin plastered onto his back. Hands, again, slotted neatly onto Guan Shan’s waist, belonging there, and Guan Shan felt the nudging pressure. He felt himself opening, easily—too easily, no give, a hot slide of He Tian’s cock like there was no mistaking this; no mistaking that this was where He Tian belonged, what Guan Shan had been made for. He felt raw and remade; he felt like wood, whittled down to the shape He Tian wanted. He felt like a small, new world, played in He Tian’s hands, malleable, young rivers and mountains that could be brushed away with a touch.

‘Again,’ said He Tian, and the tenderness was wrecking.

Guan Shan dissolved into tears.

There was nothing in his head anymore. He couldn’t—he felt like what He Tian said he would be: a hole for him, soaked with his come. Would he smell like it? Taste like it everywhere? The thought of being empty after this sent a shudder through him, and his mind wrapped strangely around the idea of it. He wasn’t sure he could—could he stand to be like that?

‘Guan Shan?’ There was a touch on his jaw. ‘Colour? Tell me.’

He felt ruined. He felt absent and taken. He felt like nothing was keeping him standing upright except for He Tian’s cock—except for the hard press of glass.

He pressed his eyes shut. ‘I don’t…’ He didn’t know. He didn’t know. He could taste He Tian’s come on his lips, at the corner of his mouth. Was there anything else?

‘Colour, Guan Shan.’

Guan Shan tried to pull something from his head. He felt limp; he felt like he had nothing left to give; he felt like he had drowned and lay at the bottom of an ocean bed, the whole weight of it pressing down on him, lungs empty, a weightlessness like loss—like being breathless and _lost_.  

It barely existed: ‘Green.’

‘What colour?’

‘Green.’

He Tian said, whisper-quiet, ‘Green?’

And Guan Shan tried to nod and said, ‘Please,’ lost, and not wanting to be found. ‘Don’t—don’t stop.’

He felt the smile printing itself onto his neck, dark, promising an eternity that Guan Shan wanted and couldn’t bear to be a part of.

He Tian didn’t stop.

* * *

‘Are you okay? It wasn’t too much?’

‘It was—definitely too much.’

He Tian gave him a steady look that, if someone ever looked closer, was not steady at all. ‘And that was okay?’

Guan Shan swallowed a sigh. After sex, He Tian had an almost obsessive preoccupation with getting Guan Shan’s approval. Not vainly; not because he wanted the praise. He wanted it in a way that made Guan Shan feel warm and settled in the knowledge that He Tian would, forever, be this attentive.

‘He Tian,’ he said, looking up at him from where he lay on his stomach. ‘It was… I would have let you keep going if I didn’t want to pass out with your cock in my ass.’

He Tian pressed his lips into the back of his hand, eyes bright. He had a knee drawn up to his chest, an arm wrapped artlessly around it. Like this, sitting up, unclothed, curled into himself, folded around himself, he looked younger. It was almost wrong that he could look like this after what they had done. After the words that came from his lips, because _god._

‘You’d like that though, wouldn’t you?’ He Tian said, and in seconds his eyes were darker, the brightness growing hooded. He was young, still, but something was edging around him, jagged and sharp. Touching him looked like it would cut. ‘Keeping me warm. Being good like that for me.’

He reached over, and pressed a hand on the back of Guan Shan’s thigh, fingers trailing over the skin, lazy as an afterthought.

After, He Tian had carried him to the bath, set himself down behind him, trailed kisses across his shoulders and the nape of his neck, fed him peeled segments of clementines as they soaked, the tub emptied and refilled until they were clean, and Guan Shan’s head lolled back on He Tian’s shoulder. He let He Tian trail fingers through his hair, across his scalp. He let him work away some of the ache and the tension beneath his hands until everything left was a remnant of lazy, halcyon bliss.

On clean sheets now, Guan Shan groaned into the pillow. ‘I won’t be able to walk,’ he said. Hips shifting and pressing into the sheets, feeling want pool in the bottom of his stomach again. Too soon. He ached everywhere.

He Tian smirked. ‘Good. You can just stay here and let me fuck you for the week.’

‘Yeah?’ said Guan Shan, a little breathless, thinking about it. ‘I think you’ll die of hunger if that happens.’

‘You can tell me what to do from the bed.’

Guan Shan smiled into the sheets. ‘Disaster. We’ll end up eating three bags of clementines and nothing else.’

‘Your tongue will taste of citrus.’

‘And we’ll be deficient in everything but Vitamin C,’ Guan Shan said flatly.

He Tian gave a quiet laugh, and unwound himself, the length of him stretched out beside Guan Shan. They were mirroring each other. Guan Shan liked him every way he was, but he liked him loose and languid as he was now, boyishly lazy. He carried nothing hard or bruising around him when he was like this, and Guan Shan wished fleetingly, as he had done before, that it could have been like this from the beginning.

He wondered if he would have looked at He Tian in the beginning if he had been like this the whole time. The ridiculousness of it hit him instantly: He Tian hadn’t been _like this_ in the beginning, and he loved him so easily now. Would he have forsaken the beginning of what they had been if it meant they did not have this now? Hoping for something else was redundant, and useless, and probably a little cruel.

Guan Shan suspected that He Tian never wished Guan Shan had been someone else—or was someone else. He gave his affections to something so wholly, and so easily—demented, almost, by loving someone and refusing to see anything else in them but something to be loved.

With a sigh, Guan Shan curled into himself on the bed, and it took a few seconds for He Tian to fit himself and settle behind him, skin plastered on skin. They smelled the same—of each other. Their skin felt the same to touch. Except touching his own skin was not like how it felt for He Tian to touch him, and his eyes were fluttering closed with the sensation of it, pulling him into sleep, lulled in the embrace of He Tian’s arms.

Closeness was so easy. Together, they were so easy. This felt like breathing—No. Breathing felt like this.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/post/154996297979/beings
> 
> Please show some love here or on the original work if you enjoyed!


End file.
